Bio:

Born at the turn of the century to a family of modest means in Boston’s North End, Dixon’s early life was unremarkable. Although he was in the US Army during the Great War, he never saw action against the enemy, having been hit in the right leg by a negligent discharge of his CO’s revolver. Though it was a flesh wound from which he relatively quickly recovered (he still has a very slight limp), he was subsequently transferred to a rear-echelon unit and spent the remainder of the war manning supply depots.

Returning from the war, he initially moved to Brooklyn to take up work in factory (having been offered the job by a fellow doughboy). The factory was taken over a few years later, and not being a fan of the new management or union leaders, he left.

Dixon did not seek out a career as a private investigator, rather he largely fell into it as a job that allowed him to be his own boss, and would pay the bills (most of the time). these days, he can usually be found either in his office or tramping the streets, handling the petty and banal problems of the city for ten dollars a day (plus expenses). Most nights, he can be found drowning his sorrows in his usual haunt, Rex’s bar